I'm Not Sorry. Really.

I just read this friggin' fantabulous post via @DanielleSmithTV of ExtraordinaryMommy.com. It struck a nerve and I felt things within me begin to shift, crack, and turn on themselves. I was reading about myself. And I bet if you hop over there, you'll find the very same thing.

I apologize all the time. For nothing. For everything. For little, silly, insignificant things. "I'm sorry" is likely the most oft-used phrase in my vocabulary and perhaps beginning today I'll keep a tally--maybe even the next few days. Anyone wanna make any guesses? Maybe I'll throw in a prize? (Or I won't, and then I won't apologize. Mmm'kay?)

Danielle's post made me think about where it comes from, this incessant need to blurt out the phrase so frequently. It's become such a bad habit. I don't even realize I'm saying it half the time. I think it comes from my core, my lack of respect for myself, the high standards I hold myself to. It comes from listening to my mother who also apologizes on a regular basis. But like Danielle points out, it seems women are doing most of this, not men. Why? Because for the most part, we're the ones in the trenches. We're juggling everything, doing it all, trying to make 3,428 things fall into place on any given day. Even if we don't "work" per se and stay home with the kids, we're still cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, playing chauffeur, laundress, secretary, and personal shopper. We're raking the leaves, pulling the weeds, taking out the trash, playing referee and unclogging the toilet . We're schlepping to the vet, schlepping to the pediatrician, and schlepping to the PTA meetings. We're wiping butts, wiping countertops, and wiping runny noses. We're running errands, running after soccer balls in the street, running up and down the stairs. When we're off our game, the whole house of cards collapses; dinner doesn't get made, Joey's late for soccer practice, and we come home to dog barf all over the kitchen floor. And then we say it. We say, "I'm sorry."

No more I'm sorry. It's okay to have Stouffer's frozen lasagna for dinner sometimes.

No more Mrs. Nicey Nice. It's pointless to feel badly about stupid stuff.

No more apologizing for things that are not my fault or are out of my control (i.e. dog puke).

No more even thinking about apologizing when it's unnecessary.

No more apologizing for calling someone, worrying it might be a bad time (that's what voice mail is for).

No more apologizing to my kids when I'm telling them they can't do something. I'm the mom. I'M IN CHARGE, DAMN IT.

No more apologizing for crying. Emotions happen.

No more apologizing for missing important meetings. I just had hernia surgery.

No more apologizing for not commenting on all of your blogs. I do what I can when I can. I still love you.

No more apologizing for not being able to constantly juggle the 2,754 things that are on my plate without missing a beat. It's just not humanly possible. Perfection is unattainable.

In conclusion, I'm not sorry. Really, I'm not.

What are you not sorry about? Are you a perpetual apologizer like me? Do we need to start an Apologizers Anonymous?

Flashback Friday: Channeling My Inner Rockstar---Madonna

I'm flashing back today with Deb over at Web Savvy Mom. Back to good old 1985. ish. Or so.

Pictured here is my BFF & neighbor, Jennifer. She was Madonna for Halloween that year. And me? I'm the dorky juice box. I'm practically drooling over her costume, as the two of us had spent many an hour crooning the "Like a Virgin" lyrics into our hairbrushes every day after school. Jennifer's mom also kept a giant box of Blow Pops around, so it was super fun to hang out over there. Don't laugh, girls--you know you did it, too!

Anyvirgin, my jealousy is palpable. Note the envious expression on my face. I may as well be eyeing a plate of french fries I'm about to devour---because I wanted to be her. Not just her, my friend....I wanted to be Madonna. But I wasn't cool or creative enough, my mom only knew how to make costumes out of boxes (which were a bitch to walk in, by the way---my knees knocking on the cardboard), and let's face it-- I wasn't ready to channel my inner Madonna just yet.

But now? With Halloween merely weeks away (and in case it wasn't already crystal clear, it's my FAVORITE holiday), CIP under my belt, my skeletons coming out of the closet, and Abby teasing me with her Madonna shirt which she insists upon wearing every day it's clean....

It's time. It's my turn.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I am morphing into MADONNA. I am going to channel my inner rockstar. And it's gonna last way beyond Halloween, so gird your loins, people. I'm taking on her attitude--not going to care what people think, not going to be afraid to change, and I'm going to say what I want. And you're going to like it. Or at least pretend that you do. I have always had a thing for Madonna and she's my idol. Which could explain the new artwork we bought from @TwoOldHippies in Aspen recently. More on that another time.

Some of you reading this may recall my brief stint as Madge in college. One day a hypnotist showed up on campus for an evening of fun in one of the lecture halls. A big group of us went because there were no fraternity parties that night out of curiosity. He asked for volunteers from the audience and unbeknownst to me, my "friends" sitting behind me were pointing & wildly gesturing in my direction. Because I'm oblivious, naive, and unassuming like that, I got picked and had to get up on stage. Inside I was feeling cautious, but confident because I knew it was all an act. Next thing I know, I'm cowering behind a row of chairs because this hypnotist has convinced me I'm completely naked. Five minutes later he informs me I'm Madonna at a concert; suddenly I'm singing and strutting my stuff all over the stage, belting out lyrics and sounding like a sick cat. Clearly this guy was gifted because whenever I've assumed the position on any type of stage, my voice cracks and shakes, I am a total wreck, and I basically want to vomit thinking of all the people looking at me.

But back to our adventure in the hood today.

Confession # 1: I may or may not have dragged my innocent daughters into a seedy costume shop in the hood that had actual black iron bars over the windows.

Confession # 2: I may or may not have encouraged said children to follow me into the musty, dank, mildewy-smelling basement to look for Madonna garb.

Confession # 3: I may or may not have actually enlisted the help of a salesperson to assist me in assembling the perfect Madge ensemble.

Confession # 4: I may or may not have made several purchases. Said hypothetical purchases shall not be revealed until the week of Halloween. I will, however, complain that I've been unable to locate any of those jelly bracelets. If you know where I can get my hands on some, contact me IMMEDIATELY! Silly Bandz are not gonna cut it. I found some on Ebay, but I'm not sure they're THE jelly bracelets. Help!

Who are you channeling this Halloween? And how can I convince my husband to dress up this year? Furthermore, what should he be?